01 Wednesday Apr 2026
The stirrings in me
are the stirrings in You,
a thread binding us that vision can not seek yet
heart and belly play, both, as one instrument
of longing.
Call up my voice,
that which is Yours
and sing,
sing,
sing
through me…
26 Wednesday Apr 2023
While endless talk,
noise of commercialism, opinion,
celebrity,
fills too many spaces,
when chatter closer to home gets
incessant
remember
that is sound of a disturbed heart.
And we’ve far, far too many of those.
Step silently back
and recall what tender talk,
a creek rolling through, touching
sides, stones, roots
speaks of–
its landscape of blood, tissue and bone–
that which sustains, holds and guides it
along the journey.
When the child enters, or one of the countless
yet to be heard,
please,
listen.
Robins do not sing
for nothing.
15 Saturday Apr 2023
The vultures have returned
from distant winter shelters,
their broad arms now stirring pale spring skies.
Between mesa and hilltop, there’s a valley
and her thighs cradle winds
soul-driven to buoy those dark ones,
to bring them in circles, mixing pollen and dust,
whisking insects far below
to petals low and wide.
The languages spoken meet human ears
only as whistle and snap,
but the Others, they carry conversations
over whole continents.
It can be seen in outstretched wings,
high in leafless cottonwoods,
of vultures at sunrise.
In silence, before the world wakens,
if we stand with the trees,
our bodies hear their words
and join in the call and response,
without thought, instinct recalled.
31 Sunday Oct 2021
I keep checking for messages.
They aren’t there, of course.
What sends messages these days
doesn’t use the language I grew up learning.
How many languages don’t we speak because of those
we had to,
pinning words down with force for
efficiency
exactness
precision
accuracy
literalness lopping off the Song of the universe?
There is light, instead, what trees eat,
reflecting on the full belly of blood-red
garden pot,
and wind talking the leaves high,
high up the towering eucalyptus.
Clapping faeries have flitting epochs to share,
and they await those willing to listen
to languages bodies understand.
More quiet than I yet can hold
is the ear that can translate for me.
God, I know what I would like to be
in service to what is far greater~
please, show the winding way…
25 Sunday Oct 2020
I’d like to sit in the room
there with that pajamaed boy upon his knees,
crumpled blankets and bed beneath him,
staring out windows into the dark,
to sit silently with him
wherever he may be.
Not to pluck the darkness from his sight or sorrows,
his fears or confusion,
for he needs the darknesses,
they feed him as much as light.
And Heaven knows he must gather experience
and knowing
and skill continually grappling with both.
Both, ever both.
Here, it is an All sort of existence.
May it be that he (and you, and I and they)
feels what it is like
to be he, only he, and to sense
that that being is more
than even a growing imagination
can conjure
in vast nights silently sitting, and
finally with darkness
not alone.
Salt, Smoke, Water and Stone 